


Always There

by makeuswise



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bipolar Spot Conlon, Drinking, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Race has ADHD, Race/Romeo mention, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeuswise/pseuds/makeuswise
Summary: Spot’s scream rings out through the house.A modern soulmate au for lillian-valnala on tumblr!





	1. A Walk In The Park

Spot’s scream rings out through the house.

“Stop!” he says, one hand over his racing heart, “I could’a dropped my croissant!” The laughter is uproarious, half the gang on the floor with tears in their eyes. Spot’s face is more flushed than Race has ever seen it, and he snaps a picture of him while he’s got his camera open. This is  _ definitely  _ going on Vine.

It’s a great way to wrap up the night. Davey’s mom hears the screaming and decides it’s too late for this kind of ruckus, coming to Davey’s room to start ushering the group out. Sniper, Smalls, and Mush leave first, loathe to overstay their welcome. Albert and Elmer filter out next, having finished their conversations and said their goodbyes. Katherine and Crutchie hang back, chatting amongst themselves while they wait for Jack to finish talking to Davey. Romeo gives Sarah a quick kiss on the cheek, which she wipes off with mock disgust. It’s followed by a smile though, so he knows it’s okay. They hug and Romeo heads out, popping Davey’s hat back on his head after having stolen it earlier. Spot is still finishing his croissant, and Race waits up for him, as per usual.

It takes Mrs. Jacobs coming in a second time to shoo them before Spot finishes his food and Jack finishes his conversation. The group of them leave together, taking turns hugging Davey and Sarah before they head out.

It’s about halfway through Race’s walk home that they split up; Jack, Katherine, and Crutchie taking a right where Spot and Race stay straight. There are more hugs and kisses on the cheeks, familiar goodbyes for close friends. They go their own ways, aching to be home after a long day. Spot and Race walk in silence for a short while, Race distracted by staring up at what stars he can see through the city lights. The stars are a beautiful constant, bright white sparkles in the night sky that don’t remind Race of his condition.

He’s 23 and he hasn’t found his soulmate yet. The world is still in shades of grey, colors a dream he’s still reaching for. The stars though, the stars are just white light against a black sky, no colors to miss. He can see them clearly, just as they are, and it helps comfort him on nights like these when he longs to find the other half of his heart.

“Hey,” Spot bumps their shoulders together, “Stop thinking so much, I can smell the smoke.” Race snorts and smacks his arm, silently glad to be brought back to the moment. He reaches down and takes Spot’s hand, threading their fingers together. Spot’s palm is warm in his own, and he savors the contact. His heart flutters in his chest, always happy to be close to his best friend.

“Ya think you’ll remember me in a decade?” Race asks. He can’t help but wonder, hoping they’ll still be friends but knowing the world is cruel and nonsensical and anything could happen. He wants to believe they’ll still be living together, maybe in a two bedroom apartment rather than crammed together in a studio. He wants to be confident in their place as best friends, wants to be able to believe they’ll stay together forever. But life has thrown more loss at him than he cares to think on, and he can’t help but worry about losing Spot too.

“Remember you?” Spot scoffs, “How could I forget when you’ll be there chattering in my ear the whole damn time?” His heart feels lighter after the comment. Yeah, Spot will be there. Maybe they won’t be as close, won’t hold hands on their walk home anymore, but they’ll still be together. It helps a little with the anxiety, but the grim thoughts have him itching for a smoke. He uses the hand not entwined with Spot’s to reach back into the side pocket of his bag to pull out a lollipop. He has to use their tangled hands to unwrap it, but once he pops it in his mouth, the taste of peppermint chases away any thought of smoking. Well, most of the urge is gone, at least. It takes a moment for him to overcome his anxiety to actually talk about what’s stressing him out instead of smoking or lollipop-ing about it.

“It’s just-” he sighs heavily, starting to swing their joined hands back and forth, “What if you meet your soulmate and go live with them and have kids and live happily ever after and forget about me?” There may be nothing harder to say than when he gives a small “I don’t wanna lose you, is all.”

“Aww Race,” Spot coos, a soft edge to his voice, “I didn’t know you cared about me so much.” Which isn’t necessarily true, because Race makes it clear regularly how much he cares about Spot, how they’re best friends. Now, Spot may be a tough guy on the outside, but it never quite seems to hold up around Race. The guy’s just too damn earnest. It’s infectious.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, squeezing Race’s hand as they swing, “Even if I find my soulmate, you’ll still be my best friend. And if my soulmate doesn’t want us to be friends anymore, well,” he knocks their shoulders together, “You’re not gonna be the one I give up.” Which, holy shit, is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him, because to give up your soulmate was nearly unheard of, let alone for a friend rather than a significant other.

“Don’t go getting all sappy on me,” Race teases, eyes feeling a little prickly as he knocks their shoulders together again. They round the final corner to their apartment and Race speaks up.

“I’d give up my soulmate for you too, I think,” he says.

“You think?” Spot teases, “I say I’d give up my soulmate for you and you  _ think _ you’d give yours up too?” Race tries not to laugh at his incredulous tone.

“Listen!” he replies, grinning wide “I ain’t never had no soulmate before, how should I know!” Spot just laughs, knocking the sides of their heads together gently.

“You should know cause I’m your best friend, dipshit,” he says, “Who’s better than me?” Race thinks a moment, even though he doesn’t have to.

“No one,” he says, “Ain’t no one better than you.”


	2. First Dates Gone Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race goes on a date

He’s in hell. He forgot to take his Adderal and he’s dying and in hell. No assignments have come through in hours and the one he  _ has  _ gotten took him three times as long as usual. He’d go to the bathroom just for something to do but he’s already gone three times today and doesn’t want his coworkers to give him weird looks. The cubicle is stiflingly small today and the constant  _ tap tap tap  _ of keyboards makes a phantom scream bubble up in his chest.

“Hey, Anthony,” the guy from the cubicle next to him has wheeled his chair to the opening of Race’s cubicle, effectively scaring the shit out of him.

“Hey, Ryan, Jesus fuck,” he says, taking a deep breath to calm his suddenly racing heart, “What’s up?” Ryan looks like they’re discussing pulling a goddamn bank heist, eyes darting side to side like he’s checking for the cops.

“No work’s come through in, like, forever,” he stage whispers, “You think the boss will let us go home?” Race has been thinking of going home for hours, only staying because more hours means more money for rent and lollipops.

“Why are you whispering?” he asks instead of answering. Ryan looks around again.

“If the others hear me, they might ask to leave first and then we’re stuck here,” he explains, voice still low. It makes sense, actually, and Race kind of feels like a jerk for internally mocking him.

“Then let’s go now before they get the same idea,” Race whispers back, smile wide on his face.

\-----

The bus ride home is made longer by trying his damnedest to not fidget too much, lest he get weird looks from the other afternoon passengers. He has a fidget cube he could use, if only he hadn’t left it on his desk. Or maybe it’s at home? It’s somewhere that is not his hand, which makes it useless to him. It’s early enough that Spot might still be awake by time he gets home, which is exciting, because they haven’t gotten much time to hang out lately.

When he opens the door, he’s greeted by the sight of a shirtless Spot digging through his dresser drawers. He has to admit it’s a pretty darn nice sight to see, with how Spot’s smooth skin stretches over hard muscle. Sometimes Race thinks about going to the gym to get buff like Spot, but always mentally vetoes it. It just takes so much dedication that Race doesn’t know how Spot manages to keep his physique so tight. Part of it is how physically demanding his job is, but he definitely splurges on a gym membership and goes at least four times a week.

“Whatcha looking for?” Race asks, dropping his bag next to his unmade bed. That’s probably a habit he should get into, making his bed. Just makes the place look a little neater, y’know? Anyway. Spot is talking. And he’s not listening. Because he’s too focused on the fact that his bed isn’t made. Amazing. Great job brain.

“I think it’s in my pile,” he responds when Spot’s words finally register. It wouldn’t be the first time Spot’s striped shirt ended up in Race’s laundry. They usually go to the laundromat together and share machines, so the sorting doesn’t always go quite right. He starts rooting through the pile in front of his own dresser, looking for the sleeveless shirt. He knows it’s red because Jack told him, but knowing the color doesn’t help any when it’s all grey to him. Spot mostly wears red anyway, since it’s one of the colors Jack can see when he helps him pick out clothes. Unfortunately Jack can only see half the rainbow since the day he kissed Katherine, the other half of his vision still grey as he searches for his second soulmate. It’s pretty rare to have more than one soulmate, but he’s heard of people having upwards of six, each corresponding to certain tones and shades of different colors.

“Got it,” he declares proudly as he pulls the shirt from the pile. He should really put his clothes away. Or at least fold them. He tosses the shirt to Spot, heaving his laundry up onto his bed to start folding.

“What are you getting dressed for? Shouldn’t you be going to bed in a few hours?” he asks. It’s unusual for Spot to do much in the afternoon, since it’s basically his evening time to chill out before bed.

“Got called in early,” Spot responds, pulling the shirt over his head and starting to tuck it into his pants, “Someone on inbound called out.” Oh man, he’ll be doing a long while without sleep and Race feels for him.

“Want me to make you coffee?” he offers, already making his way to the small kitchen. Coffee is one thing they don’t mess around with; willing to pay the extra money to get grounds that don’t taste like dirt. Spot’s a fan of French press, so Race gets out a pot to start heating water. It takes a few minutes to get it near boiling- not quite there, that’s important, he learned that the hard way. He adds the grounds first, making sure the press is adequately warm from sitting next to the burner. Then he pours the hot-not-boiling water over them. A few more minutes and Spot is ready to leave, hair styled as though it won’t be messy and covered in dirt by time he gets back. Race presses the plunger down, trapping the grounds firmly at the bottom before pouring the coffee into a travel mug. He kisses the quickly warming side of the cup and smiles as he hands it to Spot.

“Made with love,” he says, grin growing to something that could be called shit-eating as Spot rolls his eyes. He punches Race’s arm playfully, making his way to the door and opening it.

“Text Sarah back after you finish your laundry,” he says just before he leaves.

\-----

Sarah is not someone he initially thought he’d be friends with. She seemed so quiet and reserved initially, which shows how much of a fool he is. Or how good an actress she is. Maybe she should have gone to school for that instead of -----.

“So I have this friend,” she leads, and Race knows exactly where this is going. She’s always trying to set him up with one friend or another, seemingly more interested in finding his soulmate than her own. He always rolls his eyes but he always says yes, a slave to the place inside him that longs for love and the color that comes with it.

“His name is Caleb,” Sarah continues, clasping her hands in front of her, “He’s super handsome and nice and I think you’d like him.” Once you knew her, you found out Sarah is outgoing and devious as all hell. Devious enough that he’d be going on this date whether he wants to or not.

“Alright,” he sighs for effect, acting put-upon as he always does, “When’s the date?” Sarah’s face breaks out into a smile that sparks dread in the pit of Race’s stomach.

“Well,” she says, “Caleb will be at the Applebees on 42nd at 8 tonight. And considering your lack of social life, I assume you’ll be there too?” She gives a small laugh when he sticks his tongue out at her, but he can’t say she’s wrong. She knows he doesn’t have many friends outside the group, and loves to use it against him. It’d be annoying if she wasn’t so sweet.

\-----

Sarah wasn’t lying, Caleb is very handsome. His eyes have that rare quality that make Race wish he had colors so he could see them in all their glory. Race spends a good portion of their dinner laughing, their senses of humor meshing perfectly. He’s surprised when he checks his phone and it reads 10:30. The time had passed so quickly with Caleb he can hardly believe it. That’s how you know a date is going well: when the time passes easier than air.

Eventually they vacate the table and make their way out of the restaurant. The summer heat has cooled to something comfortable and a gentle breeze is ruffling Caleb’s hair in a way that makes Race wish he could paint. He offers to walk Caleb home, like the gentleman that he is. Caleb graciously accepts, smiling shyly, lips a perfect curve to set Race’s heart a-flutter. They wait at the bus stop, the buses coming fewer and farther between this time of night. The bus ride is peaceful, the two continuing their quiet conversation even as apprehension starts creeping up Race’s spine. They’re getting closer to the moment of truth, and it’s starting to show on Caleb’s face.

Race likes to think that even if they’re not soulmates they’ll still stay friends. Caleb is a super cool guy, and being with him makes Race happy. But he knows the disappointment that comes after a failed soulmate attempt, and he knows how it can drive people apart.

They walk the short distance from the bus stop to Caleb’s apartment, chatter slowly giving way to silence. They stop in front of his building. It’s time.

Race brings up a hand to cup Caleb’s face gently, running his thumb over the slight stubble on his otherwise smooth cheek. They’re both breathing slowly, Caleb a bit doe-eyed as he meets Race’s gaze. Moments pass, Race’s thumb the only movement between them. Suddenly, Caleb’s gaze turns determined, and his eyes slide closed as he leans in to press their lips together. Race closes his own eyes, pressing them shut in fervent hope. When he opens them, he’s greeted with Caleb’s disappointed grey stare.

“Well,” he says, giving Caleb another peck, “It was worth a shot.”

\-----

When he gets home, he shoves his unfinished laundry onto the floor and flops into bed. Alone. He shoots a text to Spot after kicking off his shoes.  _ Went on a date. No luck. _ He should get changed. He should clean up his laundry and get changed and take his socks off like a decent human being. But he rolls to one side and sees the whole rest of the empty apartment and just plain doesn’t feel like it. He can do it tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all comments/critiques/corrections are welcome! Shoutout to spot--conlon who is featured in this chapter! Check out my shipping blog at shelterforananimal on tumblr!


	3. Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey is having a crisis. Race is not the master of comfort.

Race wakes up at the gloriously late hour of ten am. The one good thing about his job is that it has regular hours, so he always knows he gets the weekend to himself. He knows he slept well because he barely remembers Spot coming home at six, when that’s usually enough noise to keep him up for an hour. Good sleep, good coffee, good nap, and now a good video game session with his best friend. It’s shaping up to be a good day.

Spot curses in Spanish as Race knocks him out again, his character striking a pose on screen. Race never remembers the finishing moves, so there’s no little animation. He smiles victoriously, loving the way Spanish sounds in Spot’s mouth. Even out of anger.

His phone buzzes next to him and he takes the character selection break to check the message. It’s from Davey, a quick  _ Can you come over? I need to tell you something _ . Which is as close to a cry for help as Davey gets, so Race puts down his controller and stands from the ground.

“I’m heading to Davey’s, I think he’s freaking out,” he says. Spot offers to come, but Race refuses. When Davey has an episode, the less people the better. He throws his shoes on and heads out into the summer heat.

\-----

The first thing he does when he gets to Davey’s is go to the kitchen and start heating milk. He stopped at the store on the way over and grabbed some chocolate and spices so he could make Davey some homemade hot chocolate. It always helped calm him down when he was anxious, so Race figured it was a good idea.

Sarah let him in, so Davey is still upstairs. His parents should be home from work soon, so he’ll come down to greet them and find Race in their kitchen.Only moments after thinking that, the door opens and Davey’s parents come through. His mom looks frazzled, so Race adds some milk to the pot. She and Davey were the only two that liked his hot chocolate, so he doesn’t worry about making any for the rest of the family.

He adds cinnamon and cayenne to the milk to let it steep a bit before adding the chopped chocolate. Davey’s mom gives him a kiss on the head and his dad gives a pat on the back. He greets the politely, grabbing three big mugs from the cabinet. Once the chocolate is melted, he pours the cups and gives one to Mrs. Jacobs, who accepts gratefully. It’s never been a wonder where Davey got his anxiety from, so Race likes to do something nice for her now and again. Plus, it helps make up for all the racket they make when the group is over.

Then he realizes, wait, Davey still hasn’t come down to say hello, which is a huge red flag. So he makes his way upstairs to Davey’s room. He knocks gently and wait for the quiet “come in” before opening the door. The room is a war zone. Clothes are strewn across the floor, paintings from the walls laid out on the desk, and there, in the middle of a mountain of photos, is Davey looking more ragged than Race has ever seen him.

“Dude,” he says, “What the hell happened?” Davey just buries his face in his hands. Race starts shuffling through the mess until he makes it to the bed. He hops on to sit cross-legged in the only open space, across from Davey. When he hands over the mug, he gets a small “thank you” in return. Davey just stares into the cup, swirling the liquid around like he’s watching the spices dance around inside.

“Hey,” Race says softly after a prolonged silence, “Are you okay?” Davey laughs bitterly and takes a sip of his drink.

“I don’t know,” he says, and Race can tell it’s earnest. Which is how he knows it’s a dire situation. Davey knows everything, including and especially how he feels. So if Davey doesn’t know how he is, that’s not a good sign.

“What happened?” Race asks, taking a sip of his own drink to give Davey time to think and respond. Davey takes his time, nursing his own drink as he debates telling Race the situation.

“I kissed Jack,” he finally says, “And he’s my soulmate.” Holy shit.Oh man. Not that he hadn’t guessed the two were soulmates, but it was still a shock to see the pairing come true. The mess makes so much more sense. Race would probably tear apart his room too if he could finally see the color of everything he owned. To finally know what the clothes he’s been wearing look like, what his bedding and walls and paintings from Jack look like.

“That’s great!” He says enthusiastically, abruptly changing his tone when Dave doesn’t light up with him, “Isn’t it?” Dave sighs, his fingers skittering around the surface of his mug. He takes a deep breath and launches in.

“It should be great, and I want it to be great, but I didn’t even know I liked guys, let alone my best friend; because he’s my best friend, and that’s fucked up because who am I supposed to talk to— I mean, I have you, and I love you, but all I want is to curl up with him and talk like we usually do, but I can’t because the thought of being around him makes me want to throw up,” he pauses, hot chocolate dripping down the sides of his mug to gather on his shaking hands, “What if it doesn’t work out? Soulmates don’t always stay together. What if he chooses Katharine and leaves me? What if she’s not okay with us being together? To find your soulmate and not be together, it’s just…” he sighs again, stares down at his drink, “What if he doesn’t want me?” Oh, and there’s the heart of the matter. What if his soulmate, the one person in the universe who’s supposed to love him no matter the circumstance, doesn’t want to be with him? It’s a hell of a fear, and one Race is not unfamiliar with, though he’s never been as close to the problem as Davey is.

“Well, first of all,” Race starts, not quite sure what he’s going to say but just letting the words flow, “there’s nothing wrong with liking a guy” Race pauses and Davey gives a small “I know”.

“Second,” he continues, “Katharine loves you. She’ll be thrilled that you’re Jack’s other soulmate because she already knows and loves you.” What else had he said?

“You probably just feel sick at the thought of being around him because you’re anxious, and we both know that the second he touches you, you’ll be a puddle like usual.” And know for the hardest part, the root of Davey’s panic. Race holds up his hand, takes a sip of his drink and a deep breath, and lowers his hand to finish speaking.

“I can almost guarantee you that Jack loves you and wants you around; he’s probably thrilled that you’re his soulmate,” he says, “But let’s say he isn’t. Let’s say he doesn’t love you, doesn’t want to do mushy gross stuff with you… so what? Honestly, down to my bones, who cares? Are you gonna lay down and die? Just keel over cause somebody doesn’t love you?” Davey gives a half-hearted chuckle, mostly a huff of breath, at Race’s incredulous tone.

“No, because you have a family that loves you,” he continues, “And friends that would die for you, and a career you’re passionate about, and art to see and music to hear and things to experience. Your life isn’t over, Dave, it’s just beginning.” It May be one of the cheesiest things he’s said, and no one’s ever accused him of being a master at comforting people, but it seems to do the trick. Davey looks like the weight of the world has fallen off his shoulders, leaving only the weight of one person. Considering he usually looks stressed, he seems pretty well improved. Not completely carefree, but Race thinks that might be more worrying a sight than any level of anxiety.

“So I think the first thing to do is clean this mess up,” Race says, draining the rest of his drink, “And the second is to go to Jack’s and actually  _ talk _ to him.” Nausea crosses Davey’s face, only to be wiped away by determination. He nods once, resolutely, before they both get to work. Race helps fold the scattered clothes, putting some in drawers and hanging others in the closet. Each item spends a few seconds in Davey’s hands so he can appreciate the color, or realize he doesn’t really like yellow before it’s put away or bagged up to go to charity. The Jacobs family was always sure to donate anything they didn’t need, never forgetting when they themselves were living off donations. Years ago, Davey’s father had been hurt in an accident at work, but workman’s comp refused to cover it on a technicality. Months of medical bills left them on the verge of bankruptcy, and only the charity of neighbors and strangers kept them from ruin.

Once they finish with the clothes, they get to setting all his decorations back up. Statuettes go back on shelves, posters and paintings back on walls, photos back on his dresser and bedside table. Davey walks Race to the front door, his mom once again thanking Race for the hot chocolate.

He makes it home without incident, spending more time staring at the stars than is probably safe in his neighborhood. It’s not like he has any cash on him to get stolen anyway. By time he gets to the door, he’s exhausted enough to sleep right there in the doorway. He opens the door to darkness, even the twinkle lights strung over the balcony door turned off. Sometimes even the smallest amount of light can keep Spot from sleeping, so Race closes the door quickly to cut off the light streaming in from the hall.

After fumbling in the dark a bit, Spot shifts in bed with a tiny noise that makes Race’s face soften.

“Hey,” Spot mumbles, “How’s Davey?”

“He’ll be fine,” Race says, barking a laugh, “Can’t believe he found his soulmate before I did.” He gets his pants off and has one foot in his pajamas before he realizes what he said. Shit. Fuck. Davey specifically asked him not to tell anyone.

“What? Who?” Spot demands.

“Nothing, no one, good night Spot!” he squeaks, throwing himself into bed and shutting his eyes tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/corrections/critiques are welcome! Chapters should be getting a little longer soon enough, sorry this one is so short.  
> I'm desperate for comments, so the next person other than Caleb who comments on the fic will get a one shot written by yours truly! I don't care if it's a keysmash, just please tell me something adfsayuiofn


	4. The Party

Spot is smart enough not to pester Race about Davey’s soulmate. Sure, it would be a breeze to get Race to spill the secret, but tricking him into sharing the info would result in at least two weeks of the cold shoulder. An upset Race isn’t something he’s trying to deal with right now. Or ever. Besides, Davey will open up to the guys about it eventually; he just has to be patient.

In the end, it only takes a week and a half for Davey to send out a simple “Jack and I are soulmates” to the group chat. Spot could’ve guessed that, if he’d cared to guess. Jack and Davey are more Race’s friends than his own, so he honestly didn’t care all that much. But he supposes it’s nice to know the two of them found their soulmates, since they’re both pretty good guys who deserve that happiness.

The guys decide to throw a party for the couple, because what better way to say “congratulations” than by getting drunk together at Blink and Mush’s place? Spot is finally comfortable enough around them to indulge in a way he never would have years ago. He knows everyone well enough to know they’re good people who wouldn’t do him dirty if he drank a little too much. His crew back in Brooklyn is a little less savory, enjoying pranks too much to ensure his safety while intoxicated.

The gathering starts at 7, so he and Race start walking over fifteen minutes ahead of time. Spot has to use all his willpower not to curse out the driver of a car that almost runs Race right over, but otherwise they arrive without incident. Only Davey, Mush, and Blink are there before them, because Blink and Mush live there and Davey is physically incapable of being late to anything ever. The place fills up soon enough though, Jack, Katharine, and Crutchie getting there just after Spot and Race. Jack greets Davey with a kiss and Spot can see their faces darken, if not the red of the flush itself. Even he has to admit it’s pretty cute.

Sniper and Smalls come in next, toting alcohol they are definitely not old enough to have obtained legally. Albert is next, and Spot has a drink by time they exchange an awkward greeting. They’re still unsure of how to act around each other even though it’s been over a year since their blow up fight about Race. So far, Albert is the only person alive who knows how Spot feels about Race, and he intends to keep it that way.

More of the guys filter in over the hour; Buttons, Elmer, Finch, Henry, Mike and Ike (with a handle of vodka), Romeo, and Specs. Romeo and Specs announce that pizza is on the way and a cheer goes through the apartment that makes Spot grateful the landlord is too lazy to do anything about noise complaints. The apartment is small enough that this many people is a crowd, everyone bumping into each other to get drinks or hors d’ouvres or a new conversation partner. Spot bumps into about a dozen people just getting another beer and some chips. Someone, who he suspects is Finch, puts on music with a thumping baseline and Spot sees no less than half the room start to dance in varying degrees. The pizza comes and another cheer goes up as Specs weaves his way to the kitchen laden with boxes. Spot helps him sort the pizzas into topping types and gets first choice for his effort. He takes two slices of supreme and gives Specs a fist bump before returning to the main room to announce that pizza is served. There’s a bum rush to the kitchen and Spot is lucky to get out of the way in time.

Race finds him when he’s halfway through his first slice, plate loaded up with pizza and chips balanced in one hand while a red solo cup occupies the other. The time flies as they talk comfortably. Race tells him about how boring work has been lately, and Spot talks about the annoying guy at his job who seems to think Spot is his therapist. Race is downing his drinks like his life depends on it and Spot considers telling him to slow down, but figures he’s earned it after his record breaking bout of secret keeping. Judging by how he’s starting to lift the hem of his shirt like he wants to take it off, he’s going to be passed out on the couch in the next two hours. Probably shirtless.

Romeo is quite literally pushed into their conversation at Buttons hip-checks him out of his way, but Race is too drunk to mind and Spot is too fond of the kid to protest. Romeo is a good guy, and he and Spot connected in a way he hadn’t expected. Mostly over having mothers who did everything they could to support their children. For Romeo’s mom, that meant wandering the streets and short dresses and dirty cheap motels. For Spot’s mom, it meant working herself into an early grave. Maybe it’s more because they both had the experience of caring for their mothers at an early age; Spot caring for his mother as she eventually succumbed to cancer and Romeo tending to the cuts and bruises and tears from vicious men. There’s a certain bond between caretakers that he can’t truly put into words, one that keeps a fondness deep in Spot’s chest that he’d be loathe to admit to.

Eventually, the conversation turns to soulmates, as it tends to with Romeo. He didn’t get that nickname for no reason. The guy’s’ obsessed with finding his soulmate and Spot’s pretty sure he spends more money on dates than rent. He gives the rundown on all the dates he’s been on since they last saw each other, none of them ending in colors. Though the second he saw colors, he’d be in the group chat yelling about it, so it’s no surprise there haven’t been any. They’ll probably throw a party for him too, once he finds his soulmate. They all love a good reason to celebrate. The only ones who didn’t get a party for their colors are Blink and Mush, but that’s because they’ve been together as long as Spot can remember. And lord knows Snyder- he sneers at even the thought of the name- wouldn’t have thrown them a party when they were young.

He forces his mind off the subject quickly, knowing the anger will only continue to mount the more he thinks about the Spider. He’s lucky his mom held on long enough for him to get emancipated after her death, because he’s not sure he would’ve made it through adolescence without a juvy record if he’d had to go to Snyder’s orphanage.

He tries to focus on Romeo’s recounting of a date that’s making Race laugh, somehow obnoxious and endearing at the same time. The smile on Race’s face helps bring him back to the moment, cracking his own smile at the mental image of Romeo getting shoved into a puddle in the road in front of his date. He had laughed too, apparently, amused by Romeo’s misfortune and endeared by his silly reaction.

“I think I’ve kissed half this city and I still can’t get no damn colors!” romeo laments melodramatically.

“You haven’t kissed me,” Race responds. He has. Spot has seen them kiss on more than one occasion. Race has kissed all his friends except Spot himself, and unfortunately Spot had been witness to more of them than he pleased. He remembers the bout when Race was totally convinced that Specs was his soulmate and spent two weeks absolutely terrorizing the guy until he gave in and surrendered a peck on the lips. Race isn’t proud of it now and neither of them mention it, both because he was embarrassingly desperate and because it was a shitty thing to do to someone. Race was young then, and has since learned what harassment is and why it’s such a shit thing to do. Everyone did terrible things as kids, Spot included, so there’s no point in judging him for it.

Race and Romeo go back and forth on whether they’ve kissed before and Spot doesn’t bother interrupting because he knows how this ends, knows this is just an excuse to make out with each other. Eventually they decide they should kiss just in case they never have, and Spot rolls his eyes and takes a drink as their lips meet.

“Any colors?” Race asks after.

“Nope,” Romeo replies.

“Me neither,” Race says, leaning back in for another kiss. They always get like this when they’re drinking, desperate for contact and kisses. Spot can’t count on both hands the number of times Race has convinced him to cuddle because he was drunk, or how many times Race has tried to kiss him drunk. Spot refuses to let their first kiss be when they’re drunk, so they have yet to kiss. Race only ever shows interest when he’s drinking and yeah, that might hurt Spot a little bit, but he’s come to terms with the fact that Race just isn’t interested.

Except that maybe he hasn’t, because watching them kiss is making something harsh gather in his chest and he has to excuse himself before he says or does something he regrets.

The original plan had been to sleep on Mush and Blink’s floor, but all he wants is his bed and to be alone, so he downs the rest of his drink and starts heading out. He finds Davey and Jack to congratulate them again before he leaves, because it’s only polite, and he thanks Mush and Blink for hosting, because his momma raised him right. Then he heads out into the night, tipsy enough that his head is light, but not so much that he can’t walk a straight line along the sidewalk.

The stars are bright enough tonight that he can actually see a few through the light pollution of the city. They’re pretty but they make him think of Race, so he looks straight ahead instead. The night air is warm and humid, sticking to his skin and making sweat prickle up on his shoulders and underarms. Race would laugh at how quick he is to sweat, which isn’t something he wants to think about right now. He doesn’t want to think of anything involving Race, because it just keeps leading back to the image of him kissing Romeo. It’s been years and he hasn’t gotten over this stupid little crush on Race, which might be a big crush, or something even bigger than that which Spot absolutely refuses to entertain the idea of. He’s not in love. Not with Race, of all people. They’re just friends, and Race has shown no interest in him romantically. He’s already gone through all the “what’s wrong with me” “why doesn’t he want me” bullshit for years and he’s not trying to do it again.

But really, he thinks as he climbs into bed, why isn’t he good enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for hanging in there with me!! The next chapter is already halfway done, so it should be up soon. Prepare for angst >:)  
> As always, feel free to come talk to me on my shipping blog shelterforananimal on tumblr!


	5. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it!! Double update!!

Maybe Spot thinks Race won’t notice he’s acting weird. Maybe it took Race longer than usual to notice because work has gone from unbearably boring to unbearably busy. Maybe Race is overreacting and Spot is just having one of his mood swings. Maybe it has nothing to do with Race. But it feels oddly personal. Spot has stopped saying goodbye when he leaves for work, has stopped making coffee for them to share in the morning when he comes home, has avoided hugging or even touching him ever since the party.

Race wonders if Spot has been taking his medication, then kicks himself because Spot hates it when Race assumes it’s his medicine. Always makes him feel invalidated, like his emotions are irrational and only ever caused by his medication and not anything in his life. But his bipolar means he’s got a shitty memory sometimes, so Race checks his medicine planner just in case. It’s up to date, thank god, so that means it has to have been something Race did.

He wracks his brain trying to think of everything he did at the party last week, looking for an epiphany of what would have made Spot mad. He’d gotten drunk, but not too far gone, and if Spot had a problem with that, he would have told Race to slow down with his drinks, which he didn’t. He hadn’t said anything controversial or bitchy during their conversation, hadn’t tried to drunkenly box him again, hadn’t tried to kiss him again. All he’d done was talk to everyone, make out with Romeo, and do a dance number before passing out on the couch shirtless. Maybe Spot was mad he had stayed to continue to party after Spot left? But if Spot wanted him to come home, he would’ve just asked.

The only unusual thing he’d done was make out with Romeo, and there’s no reason for Spot to be mad about that. He’d kissed all their friends before and Sot had never reacted like this. He’d have to be, like, jealous or something to act the way he is, and that doesn’t make any sense. Why would Spot be jealous? It’s not like they’re together. They’ve kissed before and there’s no colors. At least, Race is pretty sure they’ve kissed before. He’s pretty much kissed all of his friends and Spot shouldn’t be an exception. But since they’re just friends, it doesn’t make sense for Spot to be jealous of Race and Romeo.

In the end, he decides it’s best to just ask Spot why he’s being weird. They’re good enough friends that they’re pretty open about their feelings and Race feels comfortable asking him outright. Spot seems to be avoiding him too, so Race has to wait until he comes home to get ready for work that night to talk to him. Race gets the water heating for coffee as Spot showers, letting the grounds steep while Spot dries off. Only when he’s poured the travel mug full of coffee and Spot is pulling on his shirt does Race finally speak up.

“Hey Spot,” he says, “Are you feeling okay?” Spot slides his belt through the loops of his jeans, not looking up.

“Yeah, why,” he responds, short and monotone. Not a good sign. Race takes a deep breath of the coffee to calm his nerves.

“You’ve just been acting kind of weird, is all,” he says, trying to be gentle. He doesn’t want to aggravate the situation if something is wrong.

“Weird how,” Spot not-quite-asks. It almost sounds like a challenge and Race’s fingers tighten around the mug in his hand.

“Have you been avoiding me?” he asks, deciding that just coming out with it is the best option. Spot freezes on the edge of his bed where he’s putting on his shoes.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, looking Race directly in the eye. Definitely a challenge.

“You’re just--” Race breathes out harshly, “You haven’t been saying goodbye--”

“Sorry if I’m trying to be a considerate roommate and not wake you up,” Spot interrupts. Race pushes on.

“And you’re out all day, like you don’t want to see me--”

“Sorry for having a life outside of you,” Spot interrupts again, pulling his laces tighter than necessary.

“And you haven’t touched me since the party,” Race finishes, gripping the mug in his hands like he’s trying to strangle it.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize we’re married,” Spot spits, finishing the bow of his laces. Race’s hands are trembling and something bubbles up in his chest and puts a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” he says before he can think. The regret is immediate, but it’s too late to take it back, the storm already raging behind Spot’s eyes.

“I’m just worried I did something wrong,” Race adds, trying for placating but coming out defensive. This is bad. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

“My life doesn’t revolve around you,” Spot says, quietly vicious in that terrifying way that made him King of Brooklyn in his younger days.

“I’m not asking for it to,” Race wants to scream but keeps his voice relatively level, “I just want to know if I did something wrong.” He sounds defensive and frustrated even to his own ears. He can’t help it, this was supposed to be a simple little conversation that ended in them both laughing at the idea that Spot was mad at him. Neither of them are laughing.

“Well why don’t you think about it,” Spot says, roughly pulling on a zip up hoodie.

“All I’ve been doing is thinking about it!” he finally shouts, because this is wrong, this is wrong, this isn’t how they interact. Spot is mad at him and he has no clue why and all he’s doing is making him madder and this isn’t them, something is  _ wrong. _

“I don’t have time for this, I’m going to miss my bus,” Spot shakes his head, grabs his bag, and slams the door behind him. He doesn’t take the coffee. Race throws the mug at the closed door and screams.

\-----

He has a small panic attack on the kitchen floor, chest heaving and hands shaking as he cries. Afterward, he barely has enough energy to clean up the now-cold coffee all over the entryway before flinging himself into bed.Spot’s mad, Spot probably  _ hates _ him, definitely hates him, is gonna find a place to move out to because he can’t stand living with Race anymore. And he doesn’t even know why. What did he do? What did he  _ do _ ?

Tear tracks stain his face when he finally slips into sleep.

\-----

He’s woken up as the sun is just starting to peek over the horizon, a weight settling behind him on his bed. He debates turning over to face Spot or just ignoring him, eventually taking a deep breath and flipping over. Spot’s face is smudged with dirt and there’s a chip of wood in his hair. He smells like sweat and propane and his own manly musk. The scent is comforting, pleasing to some deep place that has ascribed  _ best friend _ to it.

“I’m sorry,” Spot says after a minute of searching Race’s face. Race doesn’t respond, knows Spot’ll have more to say than just that. They worked on his apology skills a while ago, and he’s gotten quite good at it.

“I was acting like a dick,” he continues, “And you were really understanding and tried to be nice about it and I appreciate that. But I was a dick about it because I was mad. It’s not even your fault.” Race breathes a sigh of relief at that. At least it wasn’t something he did.

“I just--” he searches for the right words, coming up with “I got jealous.” Race’s brow furrows at that, but Spot keeps going.  
“I saw you and Romeo joking and kissing at the party and I just got jealous, because… because you’re my best friend.” he says, reiterates, “ _My_ best friend.”

“Of course, Spot,” Race reassures him.

“I had no right to be jealous, but I was, and I treated you like shit because of it,” Spot says, “And I understand if you can’t forgive me right away, or at all.” As if Race could stay mad at him. He scoots over on the bed to wrap his arms around Spot, burying his face in his neck.

“I forgive you,” he says into the soft, if dirty, skin there. The scent of Spot’s musk is stronger here, propane not so apparent. It calms him and helps him breath easier. Spot is still his best friend. Spot doesn’t hate him, or want him gone. Spot isn’t mad at him.

“Thank you,” Spot responds, soft like a prayer. Race feels his hands run gently down his back, fingers skimming the light bumps of his scars. He remembers the first time Spot had seen the scars, accidentally walking in on him getting ready for a shower. He’d walked out respectfully, but later asked what they were from, already having an idea. Race told him about the orphanage, about Snyder the Spider, about hating trees because Snyder always made you pick your own switch. He remembers the way Spot’s face had gradually hardened as Race spoke, remembered waiting for him to ask what Race had done to deserve it. But most of all, he remembered the way Spot had taken Race into his arms and told him he deserved better, swore he would never treat Race that way. That he would never let  _ anyone _ treat Race that way again. That Race was precious and good and deserving of the world.

Rarely is Spot sappy or emotional, but Race cherishes times like these, when he holds Race close and strokes his back and whispers into his hair. The whispers are small apologies and compliments this time.  _ I’m sorry I treated you that way, I never want you to think I don’t love you, you deserve everything and I can’t wait to see you get it. _

They stay curled up together, Race’s bare legs intertwined with Spot’s jean-covered ones, until far beyond the sunrise. They talk about their weeks, since they hadn’t been talking regularly in that long. Race tells him about how stressed work is making him; Spot talks about how hectic work is in the summer. They both talk about how hard it was to be away from each other. They speak softly, like their conversation is a secret even from the empty room around them.

Race rarely ever wants so badly to kiss Spot, usually when they’re like this; lying down like they were spun together at creation, sunlight diffused by the curtains sneaking in to fall on Spot’s face, highlighting his long eyelashes and the little wrinkles around his smile. But he thinks of all the times Spot has pushed him away and said no, and he respects that. Even if all his heart yearns for in that very moment is the taste of Spot’s lips. Just once.


	6. Smooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race does some soul searching. Spot makes a realization (off screen).

Sarah’s statistics class is going to be the end of her.

Her professor makes about as much sense as Jack talking about Santa Fe after a fat blunt and every explanation he gives just makes her more confused. Everything seems ten times more complex in his lessons than in the book and she’s stopped paying attention to lectures altogether because they just make things worse. He’s a good guy, super nice and generous with his curve, but definitely not meant to be a teacher. Luckily, she has Race to help her out. Going to the student center for tutoring would be mortifying since she’s supposed to be the one who always knows what’s going on, so his math degree is a blessing.

Today, they’re working on correlation and Sarah feels like a dunce for not realizing she was using the formula wrong. Race assures her it’s easy to neee up if the formula hadn’t been explained correctly, which makes her feel a little better. She can’t even blame her teacher, though, because she’d paid attention maybe all of thirty seconds of his lecture. Sure, it probably wouldn’t have made any sense anyway, but she can’t know that for sure.

That’s the thing about Race, though. He’s gentle and reassuring, and his explanations make much more sense than her professor’s. His breakdowns make sense on the first try, usually no clarification needed. But when it  _ is _ needed, there’s no judgement in his voice or visage. He never ridiculed her or makes her feel stupid for not understanding, not like Davey tends to. Sarah loves learning with Race, which is saying something, considering her feelings about STEM classes boil down to “I’m a dance major, why the hell do I have to take this?”

“You should be a teacher,” Sarah says as they’re cleaning their supplies off the table after their session. Race’s brows furrow as he dumps the remnants of their coffees into the sink.

“You think I could?” He asks, shoving his pens into his pocket. Sarah spares a moment to be jealous of his functional boy pockets before responding.

“No, I said it for shits and gigs,” she rolls her eyes before continuing earnestly, “You’re a great tutor for me, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be a good teacher.” Race stares into the middle distance like he’s contemplating the possibility. Sarah lets him have a moment before bumping their shoulders together.

“Hey Einstein, I can smell the smoke,” she says, smiling as he shoves her back. He crosses his arms and acts offended, but there’s a smile at the edges of his frown.

——-

When he gets home, Spot is still asleep. He won’t wake up until just before 11 when he has to get up for work. To pass the time, Race flits around, tidying the apartment. Sarah’s idea has filled him with nervous energy and his Adderall is wearing off. He wiped down the kitchen counter, forgoing emptying the dishwasher since the clashing of dishes would be too much for Spot to sleep through. He can’t quite focus on one thing, so he tries to at least focus on one room, doing laps around the bathroom until he’s scrubbed the toilet and wiped down the sink and even sprinkled some Comet in the shower to be rinsed later. He makes a quick stop in the kitchen on his way to the main room, clearing off the drying racks as quietly as he can manage. Then he shifts his attention to the main room, throwing his clothes in a hamper to be taken to the laundromat tomorrow, even folding his clean clothes and putting them away in the appropriate drawers.

After all that, he still has some time to kill, so he cycles through tasks, trying to read a book he’s been working on for a few months while he scrolls through his phone and tidies his shelves. Eventually, he gets to a good part in his book and ends up hyperfocused on that until Spot’s alarm goes off at 10:30.

“Hey,” he says, shaking Spot’s shoulder as his second alarm goes off at 10:45, “Time to get up, sleepyhead.” Spot groans, shutting off his alarm and weakly smacking Race’s face to get him to stop shaking him. Race heads to the kitchen and sets some water to boil, emptying the dishwasher and thinking of the best way to phrase his question while he waits. He sneaks little peeks at Spot changing into work clothes, marveling at his chiseled chest and toned arms as he switches to a different T-shirt. Race has the decency to look away when spot changes his boxers, but catches a flash of that legendary ass in cloth as Spot bends over to pull up his shorts.

“Enjoy the show?” Spot asks once he’s buttoned and zipped his pants.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Race says coolly, but he can feel his face flush like it always does when Spot catches him staring. They don’t really talk about it, this thing where Race watches him at night and Spot checks Race out in the morning. It makes it obvious that there’s some sort of mutual… something there, but neither of them have the courage to act on it. Race just reminds himself that Spot isn’t his soulmate and nothing good comes from sleeping with your friends.

The coffee finishes steeping as Spot pulls the bow tight on his left shoe. Race presses it and pours it into a travel mug. Race twists the lid onto the mug as Spot finishes with his right shoe. Race decides, fuck it, straightforward is the best method.

“You think I could be a teacher?” Race asks. Spot freezes where he’s tying a hoodie around his hips. It’s only a moment’s pause before he finishes tying the sleeves slowly, like all his brainpower is tied up imagining Race as a teacher. Race appreciates the careful consideration. That was the best thing about Spot; if you ask a question, he does his best to give you an honest answer, even if it’s not what you want to hear. Everyone who knows him &!82: that it you’ve got an important question that needs an honest answer, you go to Spot.

“Yeah,” he finally responds, taking the coffee f ok Race’s hand, “It’ll be hard, but I think you could do it. You’d be a good teacher.” It means everything coming from Spot, because if Spot says you can do something, you can do it, hands down. Race wants to hug him, kiss him, but settles for clapping him on the shoulder and saying “thanks”.

\-----

It takes a lot of research to find some teaching certificate programs that are actually legitimate and good enough that he could get a job with them. He does the research mostly on his phone during work, supplemented by some time on his laptop at home. It yields a few results in the area but he’s only got enough money to apply to two. He picks his alma mater and the one with the next best eveni8ng program and crosses his fingers.

He’s a late applicant on both, barely making the deadline for fall semester. He hopes beyond hope that that’s why they’re taking so long to get back to him. He does his best to just go about life as usual, going to work, hanging out with his friends, getting too little sleep. It’s a month of this before his phone pings with an email notification from his alma mater. He sneaks into the bathroom to read it, not wanting Spot to see him possibly (probably) cry if it’s a rejection.

The fear ends up having been for nothing, because the first line after “Dear Anthony Higgins” stars with “Congratulations”. Race almost screams with relief and excitement as he reads the email accepting him into the teacher certificate program. He bursts out of the bathroom, rushing over and shoving his phone in Spot’s face.   
“Dude, chill,” Spot says, voice irritable despite his smile, “I can’t even read it, you’re shaking so much.” Race takes the phone away, bouncing from heel to toe and back.

“I got in!” he says, alternating between an uncontrollable smile and a worried frown. School hadn’t exactly been easy for him. Most people with ADHD never graduate, because the school system isn’t meant for anyone but neurotypicals. But he made it through once, so he can make it through again, right? But God, it was so hard the first time and he barely made it out alive. But he still has his voice recorder and a handful of helpful techniques and he’s on Adderall now. But--

“I can feel you worrying,” Spot says, an amused lilt to his tone, “Calm down” he puts his hands on Race’s shoulders, a grounding point for Race to focus on, “Now’s not the time for worry. Now’s the time to celebrate.” Spot gives him a good shake and then a clap on the shoulder before heading to the kitchen. He digs around in the liquor cabinet for a minute before pulling out a bottle of whiskey.  _ The _ bottle of whiskey. Race can’t let him crack that open, can’t let him waste it on something like this.

“Spot--” is all he gets out before Spot puts up a hand to silence him.

“It’s my whiskey, and I’ll use it when I want to,” he says, no space to be bargained with. The whiskey is from his ma, only to be opened when he finds his soulmate. One of the last things he has from his mother, and one of the most expensive. Race can’t fathom why Spot thinks this is a big enough event to warrant opening the bottle. But it’s his choice, so Race will just be honored instead of worrying it’s the wrong time.   
“Thank you,” he says, for more than just Spot handing him a glass. They pour out a finger each and toast.

“To new beginnings,” Spot says, “And realizing what you want.” Their glasses clink elegantly and the whiskey leaves a pleasant burn as it goes down smooth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading!! Any comments/critiques/corrections are welcome. This chapter is about 300 words shorter than usual but after completely rewriting it twice I don't have it in me to bullshit more words lmao


	7. Solutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race goes back to a bad habit. Spot has an unexpected response.

Race knows it’s a nasty habit, that’s why he hides it. Hell, that’s part of the reason he quit in the first place. No one wants to kiss you when your breath smells like smoke. Plus he’s not an angsty teenager anymore, so he’d rather have extra years on his life than look cool and edgy. But he’s doing both work and school, which is exactly as difficult as he worried it would be., and the stress has his jaw perpetually clenched and he just needs something to relax him, some sort of physical release. Usually that would be dance class, but he doesn’t have the time or energy to actually go anymore. So, smoking.

He’s doing his best to hide it from everyone, especially Spot. He keeps his bottle of cologne in his bag so he can spray on the go, and always has scented hand sanitizer no him so he can clean (or at least mask) the smell of smoke that sticks to his fingers afterward. If he smokes at home, it’s always when Spot it out or dead asleep, and he makes up reasons to go outside for a few minutes when hanging with the crew. So far, only Specs has caught on; the guy’s too observant for his own good. He’s been sworn to secrecy, however, and has so far kept good on his promise not to tell. Race supposes Specs’s superior secret keeping skills are an adaptation to living in New York City; when you notice everything, sometimes it’s best for your own health to learn to say nothing. So it’s lucky that Specs is the one who notices, because that means Race’s secret is safe another day.

He doesn’t even necessarily _want_ to smoke. He knows it’s bad for him, knows it increases his chances of a plethora of nasty diseases and decreases his chances of a long life, knows it makes dancing and singing harder. Hell, it’s even bad for his wallet, shelling out 25 bucks a week for two packs. At least he isn’t smoking as much as he used to, he supposes. Lord knows he can’t afford student loan payments _and_ a packs day. Five cigarettes a day is way better than 20, healthwise, but it still isn’t good.

And it’s not like he forgets how hard it was to quit. Lord knows he remembers the months of nicotine patches and gum. He remembers how quitting in the summer sucked because he would seat his damn patches off and have to tape them to his arm. Quitting sucks. It makes you irritable and hungry and tired. He lashed out at his friends for no reason, just because his body was punishing him for taking away its candy. But quitting was good. It saved him money, gave him more time with friends, extended his life, made him more productive at work. He could sing Queen again, could dance longer and better before being out of breath.

Out of breath. He is right now, having gone down the five flights of stairs at work because the elevator was broken. Luckily he doesn’t have class today, because he ended up staying long at work. Being late to class was its own kind of hell, with everyone staring at him and his anxiety assuring him everyone hated him for interrupting the lecture. He’d been late to a class last week because of work and now he could barely look his professor in the eye. Spot assures him he’s overreacting, and he knows it’s true, but his anxiety is just so damn _loud_.

Which leads back to why he took up smoking again. The busier his life gets, the louder the anxiety yells. He took medicine for it once, but it made him dull and empty and unable to sleep. He knows that not all psych meds make you feel that way, and a lot of them work for a lot of people. Hell, Spot’s on an anxiety med that’s worked wonders for him. But Race can’t get over the fear that he’ll lose himself again. So instead of going to his psychiatrist, he went to Wawa and picked up some Camels.

He lights up on his walk home after the bus ride. The smoke fills his lungs and he holds, holds until the tension seeps from his shoulders. The smoke streams from his mouth in a straight line, mingling with the wind until it dissipates. He takes another drag, takes a moment to feel bad for smoking around other people. He may have consented to ruining his lungs, but they never agreed to cigarette smoke in their faces. But he has to get a cigarette out of the way before he goes home, just in case Spot has woken up very early. The chances of him being awake at this hour are slim to none, but better safe than sorry and nicotine-less.

The walk home is uneventful, only having to dodge one child to make sure they’re not near the smoke he’s exhaling. The smoke takes his breath away as his feet pound the pavement and it’s all very grounding. By time he finishes his cigarette, he feels ready to face his homework. Thank God the elevator isn’t broken in his building, because he’s not sure he could handle walking up seven flights with nicotine still making his hands shake. He rides up alone, glad for the space so he can fish his cologne out of his bag and give himself a good few sprays. The door dings open and he fumbles to replace the bottle as he walks down the hallways. Simultaneously, he tries to get out his keys from the side pocket, but his little Funko Pop keychains catch and he has to yank roughly to get them loose. The cologne finds its place in his bag and he stops in front of his door to zip it back up. As quietly as he can, he unlocks and opens the door, trying not to wake Spot up. Tonight’s his last day of work for the week, and he’s been exhausted for some reason. Even Race isn’t home much during the week, he’s still notices Sot having trouble sleeping. The door creaks and Spot shifts so Race freezes. After a few breathless moments, Spot snuggles back down under the covers and Race sighs. Poor guy must have some crazy shit on his mind to sleep so much worse than usual.

The door doesn’t squeak on its way shut and for that, Race is grateful. He settles his bag down by the door, taking out a notebook and pen so he can have scratch paper to truck his thoughts while he does his homework. His computer is on his dresser, so he grabs it and sets it to boot up as he settles onto his bed. His Adderall is starting to wear off, so he begrudgingly heaves himself back up to make a cup of coffee. Heat water, add to grounds, steep, press, pour. It’s almost therapeutically easy at this point, and he enjoys the simplicity. Much more involved than making coffee with a machine, but it’s nice to do something with his hands after a long day behind a computer desk. Though he guesses typing is technically a hands-on activity, though it doesn’t give him the same sense of satisfaction.

Returning to his bed with his coffee balanced on a small tray to keep it upright, he sees his computer has opened to the lock screen. It still takes a few minutes to get warmed up and he spends that time dreaming of getting a new computer, one with a solid state drive so he doesn’t have to wait forever every time he turns it on. He chooses to start with his essay first, so when he takes breaks, he can work on his other assignments instead of goofing off. The plan doesn’t exactly work out as intended. He does well for a while, writing his essay and taking a quiz on the first break. He gets an A on it, which is great, because while C’s get degrees, he likes to aim a little higher.Then he goes back to his essay on disciplinary techniques, works for a while, and takes a break to do a digital worksheet. The worksheet takes way longer than it should, however, because his mind is slipping off more frequently. He makes an attempt at working on the essay again, but after staring blankly at the same two lines he’s just written for fifteen minutes, he decides he needs a real break. A little mindless scrolling through social media never hurt anybody. In fact, sometimes an activity where you get to switch between things rapidly is just what he needs to refocus his mind.

When he goes back to work, he’s able to finish his essay in good time. He saves it and exits out, leaving the editing for another day. All he has left is two worksheets, so he decides he’s earned a smoke break. The zipper on his bag is loud in the relative quiet as he retrieves his pack from the pocket, but he keeps himself from wincing at the noise. He lives with Spot now. He doesn’t have to worry about waking someone up, because at most, Spot will be annoyed. He doesn’t ever have to worry about getting hit again. But the fear still lingers, far back in his lizard brain where it makes him flinch at loud noises and fast movements. He’s overcoming it slowly. Slowly.

The window creaks when he opens it and he does stiffen at that. It was pretty loud. But when he looks back behind him, Spot is still sound asleep, so he continues to climb out the window onto the fire escape. The metal is warm under his socked feet, would probably be too hot if he were barefoot. Out of instinct, he leans on the railing and yeah, definitely too hot. Summer is a bitch in the city. How did those women in Sex in the City not constantly sweat in those ridiculous outfits? He pushes the thought aside and pulls out his pack and a lighter. Once the cig is lit, he takes a deep draw of it and feels the tension start to seep out of him. It’s only a few drags in that he hears the window behind him open and scrambles to hide the cigarette.

“Figured you’d be out here,” Spot says, climbing through the window and out onto the landing. Race knows the smoke is trailing out from where the cig is hidden behind him and ducks his head to hide his flushed cheeks. Spot laughs lightly, tapping his chin to get him to lift his face.

“You think I didn’t know you’ve been smoking again?” he asks, mock offended. Race softens at that, giving up on trying to hide his cigarette. Spot knew this whole time and didn’t say anything.

“Spray all the cologne and pop as many mints as you want to, you can’t hide that shit from me,” he says, shoving Race lightly. He should’ve known better than to think he could keep this a secret from Spot. The guy’s no Specs, but he’s perceptive in his own right. Race should’ve been up front about his problem from the get-go.

“I didn’t mean--” he starts, but Spot interrupts.

“Yeah, I know, Racer,” Spot only calls him Racer when he’s being especially fond, so he just shuts his mouth and appreciates the nickname, “You didn’t mean to, But you did.” Which again, makes him feel ashamed. It’s not that he _meant_ to fall back on bad habits, but he’s just so stressed and--

“Hey, don’t get lost in your head there,” Spot interrupts his morose thoughts, “I know you didn’t mean to. But you did. So now what?” It could be accusatory, but it’s not. It’s more a genuine question.

“I don’t know,” Race responds, leaning against the railing with both arms even though it burns. He deserves the pain.

“Well I do,” Spot says, to his surprise. What _is_ next? Quitting? He’s done it before and could probably do it again, but maybe not, with the stress he’s under. How’s he supposed to focus on quitting when there’s so much riding on him?

“You keep smoking,” Spot continues, again surprising him, “You keep smoking because you’re under too much stress to quit right now. You’ll probably just keep failing and that’ll make you feel like shit.” Race wants to be offended that Spot thinks he can’t quit right now, but he knows it’s true. He’s tried to quit under duress before and it just doesn’t work. He fails and tries and fails again and it does make him feel like shit.

“Then, once you’ve aced this program, you quit,” Spot says, like it’s all logical and easy to surmise. Like Race is going to “ace” this program. Sure, he’s done well so far, but no one can account for how the future will go and-- and he needs to stop catastrophizing. If Spot thinks he’ll ace it, he will. It’s going to take a lot of hard work and a lot of stress, but he’s going to kick this program into the dirt and that’s just that.

“You’re endorsing me smoking til I’m done?” Race asks, just in case he’s somehow misheard.

“If you try to quit under a ton of stress, you’re gonna fail, and it’s gonna end up with you discouraged to ever quit,” Spot says, leans against the railing only to grimace and pull back, “So even though I don’t like the idea of you smoking at all, you gotta quit when the time is right.” It’s all true, and he knows it. But that doesn’t take away the shame of having fallen back on bad habits.

“This isn’t a slight to your character, Racer,” Spot says, face soft as he puts one hand on Race’s shoulder, “We all mess up. And addiction never really goes away. Going back to it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, hell, it doesn’t mean anything about you as a person. Except that, well, you’re just a _person_.” Race doesn’t know how, but Spot always knows exactly what to say and how he needs to hear it.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with being a person,” Spot lifts his hand just to clap Race on the shoulder, “You’re in good company. I’m a person too.” When Race looks, Spot has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Race punches him in the gut at half strength, and Spot falls to his knees and makes over-emphatic gagging noises. He stands and ruffles Race’s hair, smacking his cheek a couple times maybe a hair too powerful to be anyone else’s definition of fond. But this is Spot, and he always knows when to be gentle and when to not. So Race smacks him in the stomach with the back of his hand and relishes Spot’s laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the smoking exposition is based on my own experience as a smoker and trying to quit. Don't smoke kids, there's not a good thing about it. Also, we're over halfway done the fic! Just prepare for some angst >:)


	8. Certified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After two years, Race gets his certification. Spot thinks too much.

Race gets his certificate on balmy summer day. It’s taken a good two months after he actually graduated to get the physical paper, the school taking their sweet time in sending it out since there was no ceremony to walk in. They probably had thousands of diplomas and certificates to send out, so Race doesn’t get too annoyed by the wait. It was a simple off-white cardstock that has his name bold in the center in black ink. Spot had promised that they’d go out to get a frame once it came in, and he kept good on his word. They find a gold frame that matched the certificate’s accents and a golden mat to mount it on. Race spends the day with the same giddy feeling as when he found out he passed his last class. He could be a teacher now. A career; a real, big kid job. No more running calculations and keeping accounts for people with more money than he could dream of having (and not even being well compensated for it). And this career was worthwhile and influential, something where he could make a difference in people’s lives. Sure, it will probably be difficult, especially starting out, but he’s excited and passionate and he knows his enthusiasm will carry him through. He refuses to ever be one of those jaded teachers who gave up on his students.

After they find the frame, Spot takes him out to lunch. They eat and talk and generally have a good time, and Spot mentions that Race just got his certificate and the waitress is sweet enough that she puts a little candle in their brownie sundae as a congratulations. When they get the receipt, the dessert is on the house, so Race thanks the lady profusely and gives her a good review on the little survey on the back of the receipt. She gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek (no colors) before he leaves, a huge smile splitting his face in two and making his cheeks hurt. The kindness of strangers always makes his day. That’s why he tries to help out others. A little kindness can go a long way.

When they get home, Spot starts getting ready for a nap before the party tonight. Race isn’t supposed to know about the party, but Albert accidentally texted some info to him instead of Romeo. Albert made Race promise to keep it a secret and act surprised when they got there, and Race figures he can manage that for his best friend. They’re throwing it to celebrate him graduating, though it’s a few months late due to all of the birthdays they’ve been celebrating. Romeo and Albert were in May, Katharine and Sarah were in June, Specs and Spot in July. So finally, this first week of August, they found time to throw a little shindig for Race. They try not to party more than twice a month, just so they don’t get out of control or kicked out of their apartments. Spot’s cover is that they’re going to Jack and Crutchie’s to help Jack plan his next mural. Race is by no means an artist, and Spot isn’t much better, so it’s not a great lie, but he’s been acting like he believes it well enough so far.

As Spot settles down in bed, Race takes out his computer. Taking a nap as well is tempting, but it’s almost time to take his afternoon meds, so he stays awake to make sure he can turn his alarm off before it disturbs Spot. The guy needs his rest, since he’ll go straight to work from the party. His shift starts at midnight so he’ll have to leave a tad earlier than usual. Their parties are notorious for going well into the wee hours of the just-morning, so he’ll miss a bit of the fun. Spot usually only stays the whole time if Race is drinking, so he can walk him home and make sure he’s safe. Once they get there tonight, he’ll probably make Race promise to stay the night so he doesn’t have to walk home alone. Spot’s a worrier, and he’s got the anxiety meds to prove it.

Race’s alarm goes off at three and he’s fast enough in turning it off that Spot only rolls over and sniffles a bit. Race takes his meds with a glass of water; a second dose of Adderal to keep him focused longer, a multivitamin, and the second of three doses of anxiety meds to keep him from getting jittery with worry. Spot’s lucky, he only has to take medicine twice a day, compared with Race’s four times.

Race returns to his computer and alternates between scrolling through tumblr on there and browsing Instagram on his phone. He’s in the lull between Adderal doses working for a while, until the second dose kicks in and he can focus on just going through tumblr. He feels like he should be doing something productive, writing a paper or doing a project or watching a lecture. The school mindset is sticking with him a little longer than it did after he got his Bachelor’s. Eventually he decides to look for some jobs, now that he officially has his certificate. There’s a few positions at different schools, but only two are for math-related subjects. He applies to both and spiritually crosses his fingers. Maybe he should look for something outside the city. He extends his search to an hour commute and gets a few more hits. He sends in his (Katharine-approved) application and literally crosses his fingers for a moment. Hopefully one of the closer schools will respond, but he can handle a commute if it means a job in the field.

Spot’s alarm goes off at 6:30, making Race nearly flung his computer across the room. He’d lost track of time and the loud chiming had caught him off guard. Spot shuts it off quickly enough, but Race’s heartbeat is still going a mile a minute as Spot grumbles his way through getting ready. He gets dressed for work and Race admires how cool he looks in this t-shirt and boots. The guy somehow manages to rock literally any outfit, even if it’s just gym shorts and a tee.

Race doesn’t make him coffee, knowing he’ll probably just stop at the Wawa bear Kath’s to grab some on his way to work. They leave at 6:45, familiar enough with the route to Jack’s that they know they’ll be on time. The sun is still solidly in the sky and even though Race likes walking and talking while looking at the stars, it’s nice to have the extra few hours of sunlight. Something about the sunlight on your face as the edges of the sky turn pink makes the world seem a little better, your burdens in life a little lighter. And having one of your best friends at your side all the while? I well that’s just the cherry on top isn’t it?

They reach Jack and Crutchie’s without incident, just before seven. Jack is waiting in the lobby when they get there, which probably would have tipped Race off to something weird even if he didn’t already know the surprise. Then again, maybe not, because Jack does all sorts of weird stuff when he’s nervous about an installation or show. He greets them both with quick hugs before sending a text message, probably to someone upstairs to warn them. The three of them take the elevator up and Race feels his shoulders tense in expectation. Sudden noise and movement aren’t exactly his friend. But it’s his friends doing something nice for him, so he can’t begrudge them it.

In the end, no one jumps out at him. They just yell “surprise” from their spot’s around the apartment, and Race has never once loved his friends more. They know him and love him and treat him better than he ever imagined he could deserve. They are the best bunch he’s ever known and he’s glad to call them his own.

The party goes off without a hitch, everyone singing and dancing and talking. Sarah put together a cupcake cake that looks like a diploma with his name on it. The cakes themselves are in the colors of his alma mater and Race squeezes her tight in a hug when he sees all the effort she’s put in. They break apart the cake around 10:30 so Spot can have some before he leaves. It tastes almost as good as it looks, vanilla with a hint of lemon, and Race says damn his diet and has two. An extra cupcake isn’t going to kill him. When Spot leaves, he gives Race a hug, and Race cherishes the rare PDA. Spoit isn’t much for hugging or holding hands in front of anyone, even their friends, so the hug is a little jarring and a lot appreciated. As expected, Spot asks him not to walk home alone, and Race promises to stay the night. Jack’ll make sure he does, because sometimes drunk Race isn’t on the same page as sober Race.

Once Spot leaves, he’s grateful for the fresh air and space. Well, as close to “fresh air” as the city ever gets. Behind crowded in a small apartment with over a dozen friends is much more bearable when he’s drinking, so being entirely sober in Jack and Crutchie’s tiny studio with a rowdy bunch had been nearly unbearable. If they hadn’t been his friends, he would’ve been out of there within an hour. Large groups of strangers weren’t his forte. That's one reason he loves his job: he never has to deal with the public. It’s just him and his small crew at ass o’clock in the morning, barely even talking to each other. Also will all the physical work he does, he only has to go half as hard at the gym to keep his strength and physique. Actually, when he thinks about it, there’s a lot he loves about his job. He gets to drive a forklift, which is fun, and he works with nice people, and he gets paid well, and his supervisors aren’t dicks, and he actually gets sick days. It’s a pretty damn good job, all said and done. He’s grateful for the sleep deprived night he sent in an application on a whim.

He’s always been a more solitary kind of guy, preferring time on his own to going out with friends. Unless it’s RAce. He’s pretty sure he could spend all his time with Race and not be any worse for wear, even with how high energy the guy is. Hell, he practically  _ does _ spend all his time with Race, anyway. They live together in close quarters, spend most of their free time together, mostly stick together even when they’re with friends. Spending so much of his life with anyone else would annoy him to no end, but with Race it just feels natural.

He tries not to think of it too much, the way he feels with Race. The way he feels  _ about _ Race. Every time the thoughts surface, he pushes them down in a way his therapist would call “maladaptive”. But it’s better to not think of it. E should address it, but it hurts too much to even acknowledge how utterly fucked he is over this gyy., And to actively know that Race isn’t interested in him at all makes his chest tighten and his eyes prick and honestly he’d rather feel hollow than hurt. There’s been enough hurt and rejection in his life already, he doesn’t need to focus on how the man he maybe-loves had never even deigned to pity-kiss him.

Except that’s all he can think of now, moving freight mindlessly around the shipping dock. It’s obvious why he can't get Race off of his mind, after watching Jack, Katharine, and Davey being so comfortably loving at the party. The casual touched, stolen kisses, sugar sweet whispered words. Davey had been embarrassed about the holw affaire, flushing every time lips landed on his face, neck, hands. Spot sees a bit of himself in that, not sure he’d be able to handle such public displays of affection, or even just such softness and love. Yet he can’t help but imagine it anyway, how softly Race would kiss him, lips slightly chapped from the summer heat. How his calloused hands would fit perfectly into Spot’s own. How perfectly they would fit together in the same bed, Race sprawled out like a starfish, like a falling angel, with Spot curled into his side like a barnacle, like a devotee.

His chest is tight and his eyes are stinging and he refuses to be emotional at work. His cheek is wet as he lowers the freight to the trailer floor, and he scrubs furiously at the offending dampness until his face feels raw. None of this. Not here, not anywhere, not now, not ever. He still has to hours of work and he can’t drive around crying like some little kid. He’s an adult. He was the leader of a fucking gang in Brooklyn! There’s no way he should be so affected by some boy not liking him back. Except Race isn’t just another boy. He is Spot’s best friend, his soulmate in a way colors could never express.

That’s what it comes down to, really. Race is his soulmate, colors or not. They’re meant to b e together forever, in whatever capacity. No matter where their lives go, how they change, what obstacles might come their way. They’re always going to be together, and that’s enough for Spot. It has to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot's job is a dockworker for FedEx Freight. This is based on my own experience in the position. FedEx Freight is fucking great and if you can get a job there, I'd definitely recommend it. Sorry for the long wait, life has been pretty crazy lately!! Thanks for sticking around <3  
> As always, all comments/corrections/critiques are welcome!


	9. Success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race gets the job! Now he has to prepare...

When he gets off the phone, he’s still in shock. It takes Spot nudging him and asking what’s wrong for him to whisper

“I got the job.”

“You got the job?” Spot has a smile growing on his face.

“I got the job,” Race feels the excitement bubbling up in him.

“You got the job,” Spot repeats, grinning brightly.

“I got the job!” Race shouts, jumping up from his bed, “I got the job!” He hugs Spot until his bones break and resists the urge to plant a kiss on him. He got the job, his number one choice job, starting in September!

Oh god, it starts in September.

School starts next month and he’s not even started on a lesson plan. Sure, he could always use the one made by the previous teacher, but he wants his class to be his own. They said they’d send him the state requirements for the class, so once that comes in, he can get started on a plan of his own. He only has about three weeks to get everything together, but he’ll make it work. He has to make it work.

In the end, he decides that instead of focusing on the non-existent lesson plan and worrying himself to death, he should do something he can control. That’s how they end up at a little outlet boutique, arms full of slacks and shirts. Spot and he make their way to the dressing room to try everything on, making sure it isn’t too big or expensive. He tries on the clothes he picked out first, starting with the slacks.

“How does my butt look?” He asks Spot each time he comes out in a new pair. Some pants are inappropriately tight around the ass, some too long to the point of covering his feet. He manages to find four pairs that hug his ass and thighs just right, and that aren’t too expensive. Three pairs of apparently black slacks and one pair of brown go into the “keep” pile and Race moves on to shirts. First, he tries a shirt marked as plain blue that makes his eyes pop. It gets put in the “keep” pile too, but only after Race rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. It looks much better and less pretentious that way. He’s aiming to look like the cool teacher, someone you can come to with problems without fear of judgement.

A few more shirts go in the “no” pile, until a shirt marked dark purple slips it’s way into the “yes” pile. The rest of the shirts Race picked go in the “no” pile, either too pricey or too bland, the shade washing him out. He moves on to Spot’s picks, starting with a shirt that has a simple white dot print on a light blue background according to the tag. Most of Spot’s picks have prints, some bolder than others. He doesn’t expect to like the floral print as much as he does, but the short sleeves show off his arms and the solid with brighter print manages to bring out both the shade of his eyes and the light in his hair. That one definitely goes in the “keep” pile for days he’s feeling a bit more confident.

Spot is dying. He’s doing his best to not let it show, but he’s not sure he’s succeeding. When he’s offered to take Race shopping for teacher-appropriate clothes, he overestimated his self control. He’s found himself reaching out twice, once to touch Race’s biceps in the floral shirt, and once to touch his chest in a shirt that was a tad too tight to be appropriate. Both times, he’d managed to stop himself before actually making contact, but it was a close thing. An _obvious_ thing. If Race hadn’t known Spot had a crush on him before, he must now. But damn, being asked to check out his ads and thighs over and over had done a number in h n, and then seeing him with the sleeves rolled up and b a dozen shirts to accentuate his forearms… Spot’s hanging on by a thread.

Thankfully they finish shopping without incident. They find a pie of brown dress shoes to go with the brown slacks, which is much easier to tolerate because despite a running joke with his old gang, he does not have a thing for feet. Even though they stuck to the cheap stuff, they got enough that the total still makes them both cringe. Spot will be picking up a little more than his usual share for rent this month, then. He doesn’t begrudge Race for it, knowing he’ll chip in some extra next month. They try to keep everything even.

Once they’ve checked out, they catch the bus back to their apartment, hands full of bags. They should probably stop by the laundromat and wash all these new clothes, but Race is still buzzing with excitement and there’s no way he’ll be able to sit still long enough to do all this laundry. So instead of being responsible, they stop by the Chinese place near their apartment and order way too much food to go, adding even more bags to their already considerable haul. They only drop one bag on the rest of the walk, because they keep hip-checking each other across the sidewalk, and Spot’s just glad it’s not the one with the wonton soup. Spot moves all his bags to one hand to get his key out and unlock the door, kicking it open and walking straight to Race’s bed to dump all the clothing bags. Race does the same, because if he doesn’t put them on his bed, he’ll never remember to wash them.

They spread the Chinese out on the counter and make their plates, settling in at the foot of Spot’s bed and turning on the TV. They watch a rerun of Criminal Minds as they eat, Spot pointing out all the inconsistencies and unrealistic moves they make. Usually talking through a show would annoy Race to no end, but Spot’s got such a dry sense of humor that it’s just entertaining. And he’ll keep quiet during new episodes of things, or at least turn subtitles on so Race can keep up with the show. Spot knows Race’s ears aren’t friends with his brain sometimes, especially when there’s more than one person talking, so he does his best to accommodate when he can.

They debate watching a movie versus playing video games and eventually decide on both, video games followed by a movie on Netflix. It only takes two losing matches of Overwatch before they break out the booze. Luckily, they picked up a bottle of soda at the Chinese place, so they each have a Jack and Coke. Race makes the drinks, and he pours heavy as always. Spot grimaces when he takes the first sip, but doesn’t comment on the strength, which means he intends to get drunk tonight. Otherwise, he would’ve insisted on making the drinks himself, knowing well Race’s penchant for pouring strong enough to cough at.

Race actually gets better at the game as the alcohol kicks in, less reluctant and more willing to rush in as Tracer requires. Spot’s aim starts suffering around the third drink, so he switches from Ana to Mercy. He doesn't like her as much after the rework, but she’s still an easy and effective character to play. The matches go a little better after that, and they even get the new D.Va achievement. When it pops up, Race whoops loud enough that their upstairs neighbor stomps on the floor. Sharing an account can be rough, especially since they like to play drunk. Once they get past their fifth drink, they hit a losing streak, too drunk to play effectively. Eventually they call it quits, having had enough of passing the controller around and losing.

It takes a good fifteen minutes for them to decide on a movie, Spot vying for a drama while Race wants a comedy. They end up settling on Moana, a good compromise. By time Moana leaves the island, Race is pressed into Spot’s side, head resting on his shoulder. Spot let’s his head fall to rest on Race’s, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. It’s not entirely comfortable, but he’s a little desperate for physical contact after keeping himself in check all day. He’d never admit how much he enjoys physical contact with his friends, especially Race, and if you cited the current moment against him, he’d blame the alcohol.

If he’s being honest, which he tends to do when he’s drunk, he doesn’t know why he keeps up his hardass routine. It served him well in the past, when he was leading a gang, when he had to make money to support himself and his mom, but it really serves no purpose now. He’s out of the gang, he can work legally, he has good friends and a relatively safe life. But it’s part of him now, as much as the dark eyes he inherited from his mother. But sometimes he wishes he could give up the ghost and just admit that he likes hugs and romcoms and cuddling. At least he’s with Race, who already knows all these things about him. Who understands his hard exterior but sees straight through it.

Sometimes he thinks Race might have shown interest in him if he want so publicly standoffish. If he wasn’t so defensive. If he were more open like Race. If he wasn’t so… the way he is. But would he even want that? Someone who only wanted him when he’s a different person? And would Race even really be interested then? He seems to like Spot just the way he is, seems to enjoy how different they are. Race wouldn’t be his best friend for years if he didn’t like Spot the way he is, would he? So he must like Spot, but something about him must put Race off from being interested in him. Something just be keeping a Race from kissing him like he does the rest of their friends. But even if Spot could pinpoint what that thing is, would he change it? Would he change himself for a chance with Race? He wants to say no, that he would choose being himself over the affection of another person. But everything is different with Race. He’s always been the exception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all comments/critiques/corrections are welcome!! I posted this from my phone and I might have been drunk writing the second half so there are probably mistakes I will fix once I’m sober


	10. First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race has his first day as a teacher!

He might have overestimate how early to get to work.

When he arrives, he has to stand outside for a good fifteen minutes before a janitor notices him and unlocks the door. Luckily the woman- Jeanette- knows the school well enough to direct him to the teacher’s lounge. It’s relatively nice, just a single large room with some tables and two couches, two microwaves and a fridge. He puts the lunch Spot packed him in the fridge and settles down on one of the couches. He wonders if that’s going to be a regular thing, Spot making him lunch. It had been a pleasant surprise this morning, when Race opened the fridge in a panic because he’d forgotten to make himself something. But he doesn’t expect it from Spot and can definitely do it himself, he’s an adult. It’s still nice though.

With nothing to do until his meeting with the principal in an hour, he decides to review his lesson plan… again. He hadn’t been able to get his own plan in in time, since he got the state requirements late August. Maybe next year he’ll be able to do it his way. But for now he has the last teacher’s plan, which isn’t too bad. It’s a little elementary for high schoolers, but if they make it through everything on the plan, he can always add subjects. He hopes this doesn’t end up like one of those inspiration-porn teacher movies where his students are all in gangs and whatnot, because he’d prefer not to get shot or whatever happens in those movies. He’s never finished one- except Dead Poets Society, which is less about the teacher and more about the consequences of bad parenting and toxic masculinity. But even if they are troublesome, he’ll make it work. He’s no Mr. Keating, but he understands what it’s like to be a troubled teen and hopefully that’ll help him deal with any problems that come up.

Going over the polan only takes about twenty of his sixty minutes, so he takes out his notebook with the intent to work on his screenplay, but ends up on his phone for another twenty minutes instead. He’ll finish the screenplay someday, just not today. It’s only when someone walks into the lounge that he realizes his leg is bouncing a mile a minute and he has to actively stifle it so he doesn’t seem nervous.

“Hey,” she says, “You must be the new accounting teacher.” He greets her in return and confirms her assumption. She puts something, presumably her lunch, in the fridge and comes to stand in front of him. She sticks out a hand and he stands and takes it, shaking firmly twice before releasing.

“I’m Antonia,” she introduces herself with a smile, “But everyone calls me Toni.” Race laughs.

“I’m Anthony,” he says, and she huffs a laugh of her own, “Luckily everyone calls me Race.” She flops down next to where he was sitting on the couch, patting his spot to invite him to sit. He does so, making sure to leave a respectable space between them. It wouldn’t do to seem presumptuous or creepy, especially on his first day. She strikes up a conversation, and he finds himself opening up easily. It’s unusual for him to open up so readily to a veritable stranger, but maybe it’s a good thing. Toni teaches pre-calculus and trigonometry, has been at this school for four years, and has two cats. She’s single, loves bad reality TV, and likes to crochet hats and scarves to give out at the soup kitchen around the winter holidays. It doesn’t escape him that she brings up being single unprompted, and he’s intrigued by her boldness.

Luckily he set an alarm for ten minute before his meeting, or else he probably would have talked to Toni until the first bell rang. He stands and bids her farewell, thanking her for her company.

“I’d offer to walk you to the office, but it’s about time for me to get to my room.” she says, gathering her bags. She throws him a mock salut when they part ways outside the door. A few students are already in the building, milling around on their way to the cafeteria. They have to wait in the cafeteria until 7, he’s learned. He follows the flow of people for a bit before he branches off in the direction of the administrative offices. A few students shoot him glances, like they’re trying to figure out if he’s a teacher or one of them. He’s well aware of how young he looks, but his clothes and messenger bag seem to give the impression of a teacher. At least he hopes they do. He’d gone with the purple button-down and some black slacks today, carefully rolling the sleeves up as he psyched himself up this morning.

He finds the offices easily enough, remembering how Jeanette had pointed them out that morning. The outer door is open when he gets there, so he goes right in, hiking his bag up higher on his shoulder. The secretary- Elizabeth Masters, according to her name tag- looks up when he enters, smiling when they make eye contact.

“Hi, I’m here to see Principal Roosevelt?” he says, half a question. Her eyes light up in recognition.

“Ah, you must be the new accounting teacher!” she gets up from her seat and shakes his hand, “Follow me.” She leads him down a hall of doors, pointing out the different offices. The second to last door in the hall is where she leaves him, announcing his arrival into the office before she goes. Race enters to see a man with one of the greatest mustaches he’s ever witnessed. The man stands from his chair and takes a few steps to meet Race in the middle of the room and shake his hand firmly.

“I’m Principal Roosevelt,” he introduces himself, “Please, have a seat.” He makes a sweeping motion toward the two chairs on the near side of his desk. Race walks to one of the chairs, waiting until Roosevelt starts to sit before sitting himself. Roosevelt clears his throat and shuffles some papers around.

“There are a few more papers for you to sign,” he says, voice deep and rough, “Sorry for all the paperwork, but you know how it is.” Race does not, in fact, know how it is, but he figures any job has a lot of paperwork, especially when there are privacy concerns like with teaching jobs. The paperwork portion of the meeting goes fairly quickly, Roosevelt explaining each piece and Race signing with a pen given to him from a “World’s Best Dad” mug. Once that’s out of the way, Roosevelt starts explaining his position, his responsibilities, what to do in certain emergency and non-emergency situations, how his probation will work. Probation is three months long, and he’s not allowed to call out during that time. He can handle that, Race thinks. He doesn’t get sick much, and doesn’t have any family to have an emergency, so he should be fine. Bells are ringing in the background, Race knows, but Roosevelt is so effortlessly captivating that he barely registers them. Even if the meeting runs long, he doesn’t have a class until second period, so it’s no big deal.

The meeting ends exactly on time, 7:25 on the dot. Roosevelt stands and shakes his hand again, wishing him good luck. Race thanks him and makes his way out of the office, map of the school and schedule in hand. He spends first period locating the classrooms he’ll be using and figuring out the fastest way to get to each. He has lunch duty sixth period, so he goes to the cafeteria to look around while it’s empty. It turns out not to be empty, however, with a study hall taking up a third of the room. The cafeteria is massive, just a large rectangular room with rows upon rows of long tables. The study hall is all grouped at the one end of the room, about 20 kids spread out among the tables. Some are doing work, some talking, some sleeping. Poor kids shouldn’t have to get up so early. Studies show students perform better later in the day, and Race really can’t imagine why schools haven’t instated a later start.

He finds his way to his second period room just as the bell rings, waiting for the flow of students to finish coming out of the door before entering. He introduces himself to the other teacher, whose name is June Foster and teaches algebra. They leave the room and Race begins setting up. He takes the lesson plan out of his bag along with some copies of the syllabus and sets his bag on the desk in the back. A few students are already filtering into the classroom, and he greets them as they find seats. He doesn’t intend to do assigned seating, since he’d never understood the purpose of it. Within the first few days students find a seat they like and stick with it anyway. It’s like self-assigned seating. The time between classes is only five minutes, so the class fills up quickly, kids greeting each other and adjusting their seats to be near their friends. Soon enough, the bell rings again and one student slides in just under it. Once they’re all seated, Race makes his way to the front of the classroom.

“Hey guys, I’m Mr. Higgins,” he introduces himself, continuing, “Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves.” He starts with the student immediately to his left, going around the room. He has them say their names and favorite food. The most common answer is “pizza”, which he expected, but they get a few interesting answers. After they finish and he’s taken attendance by their introductions, he hands out the syllabus. They go over it and he has them sign the last page and pass it back up. It’s just an agreement that they won’t use their phones without permission, they’ll do makeup work if necessary, etcetera. He knows anything signed by a minor isn’t legally binding, but it means something to put your name on a promise. He starts going over the lesson plan vaguely, giving them information on what topics will be covered and when, but he can tell they aren’t really paying attention. Half of them are picking at their nails or twirling their hair or doodling in their notebooks.

“Quiz time!” he announces, putting the lesson plan to the side. He had planned to have this be an easy little syllabus day, but clearly they need something more interesting to do. He has them get out paper, some students borrowing from others, and grabs a piece of chalk. He writes out a few questions on the board, simple things to gauge how much they know and how he should start. The last question has nothing to do with accounting, just the simple query of “Is there anything you want me to know?”.

“Remember, this doesn’t count toward a grade and no one will see them but me,” he says once he’s finished writing, turning back to the class. He gives them the rest of the period to finish the “quiz”, sitting at the desk in the back of the room and managing to write about two sentences for his screenplay. Just before the bell rings, he has them pass their papers back and collects them. He’ll have some time to look them over before his next class fourth period. That’s where he runs into trouble.

“I can’t afford school supplies” one of them has written as a response to the last question. It strikes a chord with Race, who remembers viscerally the shame of not having a notebook or pen to his name. It only takes half a second for him to make the decision, and he puts a reminder in his phone to go to the store after school. He’ll buy a bunch of supplies and keep them in his classrooms, letting anyone grab them if they need them. No one should struggle academically because they can’t afford supplies. Ain’t no crime to being poor.

His next two classes go smoothly, fourth and fifth period having similar worries about supplies. It only strengthens his resolution to supply them with the tools they need to succeed. One student even discloses that they have ADHD, and Race starts thinking of how to make his lessons more interactive and engaging. Sixth period is his lunch duty, which goes off without a hitch. No fights, no arguments even. The kids are probably just excited to be back in school and seeing their friends. He expects a few fights before the end of the school year, hell, before the end of the quarter. It’s just the nature of shoving hundreds of sleep-deprived kids in a small space.

Eight period goes well, the kids a bit more attentive now that it’s not so early in the morning and they’ve had time to wake up and eat. Another student discloses that they have ADHD and three mention not having the money for supplies. Race adjusts the amount he’ll be buying accordingly. Ninth period he’s overseeing a study hall. It’s in one of the science classrooms, so he has to make sure none of the students touch anything they’re not supposed to. He plays music lowly from his phone, at the request of the students, enjoying the music himself. It gives him something to focus on besides the hushed voices of the students talking amongst themselves. He’s not one to make a silent study hall, knowing how bad a torture that can be for students with short attention spans, or even just kids in an age of constant stimulation.

After the final bell rings, he ushers the kids out of the room, following behind and locking the door. He goes to the teacher’s lounge to collect his lunch box, hoping no one has stolen it. It’s a vintage Ninja Turtles lunchbox he’s had since he was six, and in his experience, people his age tend to find it cool rather than childish and embarrassing. It’s still there when he opens the fridge, and he shoots up a thanks to whatever deity might be up there. Just as he’s about to leave, Toni comes in to fetch her own lunch bag. She stops him and compliments his lunch box, hand on Race’s bicep burning through his shirt.

“Hey, what are you doing Friday night?” she asks, squeezing his arm.

“Grading, probably,” he replies with a wry smile, “Unless you had something else in mind?” She grins, squeezing his arm again before releasing it.

“You wanna come to dinner with me?” she asks. He’d known she was bold but he must be charming or something for her to be interested after only a fifteen minute conversation. The forwardness is something he likes, pulling him in and encouraging him to say yes. So he does. He confirms this is a date and they set a time and place. He leaves afterward, a bounce in his step the whole way to the bus stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may be coming a little more sparsely because I'm involved in a big bang at the moment so I have to work on that, but I'll do my best to get chapters out quickly. We're in the home stretch, people!


	11. Bubbly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race goes on a date and makes a decision.

Race hasn’t been this nervous about a date in a long time. Maybe because he doesn’t know Toni terribly well, or maybe because from what he  _ does _ know, he really  _ really _ likes her. Maybe he’s just stressed because of his first week of school and that’s making him nervous. Maybe a million things. Whatever is causing it, he’s fidgeting and clenching his jaw the whole bus ride to the restaurant. He also texts Albert the whole time, the other boy reassuring him that everything will go well so long as he stays calm. Which is not that reassuring, because he can’t fucking stay calm.

He makes sure he gets there ten minutes early, but it seems Toni had the same idea, because she’s there by time he walks over from the bus stop. He greets her with a hug and she gladly returns it, already starting a conversation about how her classes are this year. They enter the restaurant and sit in the waiting booth after putting their name in, chatting as they wait. Toni is excited about her classes this year, already familiar with a few students and surprised at how enthusiastic all her students seemed to be. She knows some of that will fade as the year goes on, but appreciates it now. It’s always easier, she says, to start a school year when the students are excited to learn. Race wishes he could say the same about his classes, but only one of them seem anything but bored out of their minds. He tells her about it and she laughs.

“You don’t exactly have an easy subject either,” she says, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Even though it’s an elective, no one really wants to take it.”

“Well it can’t be easy being a trig teacher,” Race counters, “No one wants to take that either.” Toni laughs again and smiles at him good naturedly.

“Yeah but I have a reputation as a fun teacher,” she says, “You’re new, so everyone expects you to be another boring teacher.” Race tips his head in agreement, thinking of how he was with new teachers in his school years. Hopefully his students aren’t as much of assholes as he was. They get called for a table and each pick up their bags from the floor. They’d decided to bring some grading they needed to do, to kill two birds with one stone. He couldn’t have gone out in good conscience with all the grading he has to do anyway, so the compromise saved the date. Race doesn’t bother putting his backpack on, just carries it to the table by the strap. He sets it down beside the table and sits, unzipping it to take out a stack of papers. Toni takes her own stack from her big shoulder purse, sliding a red pen from a side pocket.

They chat while they grade, occasionally showing each other a particularly wrong or funny answer. Toni regales him with tales of school years past, speaking kindly of some teachers and not-so-kindly of others. She clearly has a few favorite students, but she makes sure he knows she doesn’t play favorites when it comes to grades. She even gives him a few tips and tricks to getting around the school faster, and ways to make his lunch duty pass less painfully. She seems to have a good relationship with the students, speaking of them fondly and telling stories of the crazy things they get up to.

They order their food and keep talking, each about halfway through their piles, only having simple multiple choice quizzes to grade. They both agree it’s best to take it easy on the students for the first week of school, to let them settle back into the routine. Race laments having to follow the previous teacher’s lesson plan, and Toni reassures him he can use his own next year. A little nagging voice in the back of his head hisses “if you make it to next year” but he shushes it. Nothing has happened so far to make him think he’s not going to be back next year.

“Any troublemakers pop up yet?” Toni asks, taking a sip of her mango margarita. Race thinks of the funnyman in his second class, the almost-certainly-stoner in his third class, the smartass in his last class.

“A few,” he replies, “Nothing too bad though.” He’s sure he can handle them, already a master of getting the class back on track after only a week.

“What I’ve learned,” she says, slashing red marks across a bad paper, “Is that the troublemakers usually aren’t getting attention or affection at home. You give them attention outside of class, they’ll be less likely to try getting it during class.” Race thinks of the teachers whose classes he actually respected and, yeah, they were all either no fun to bug or the ones who talked to him outside of class. Race likes to think he’s garnered a little bit of respect from the students because of his policy of providing supplies. He’s had quite a few students slide into his room before class to take some notebooks or pens or pencils, and they all give a quiet “thank you” before they leave or sit down.

When they see their food coming, they push all their papers to the side to make room for the plates. They eat and talk; when Race makes a particularly bad pun, Toni laughs so hard she spits rice across the table. It’s gross, but it’s funny and cute and Race laughs with her as they clean up the mess. They get coffee after they finish their food, and the warmth of the mug in his hands makes Race wonder if he should reach out and take her hand. In the end, he doesn’t, and they pack up their papers and walk out together. He offers to walk her to her car and she accepts, allowing the conversation to lapse into a comfortable silence while they walk. When they get to her little Toyota, they stop to face each other and Race makes his move.

“Uh,” Toni says, backing away just enough that he misses her and surely looks like a damn fool doing it, “I don’t uh, kiss. On the first date.” Race feels his brow furrow and looks at her a bit strangely. Everyone kisses on the first date, at least everyone he knows.

“Why not?” he asks, quickly tacking on, “If you don’t mind me asking.” He’s not offended or anything, just confused. This isn’t exactly a situation he’s been presented with before, and he wants to know if it’s about him personally or just a general rule. He hopes he didn’t do anything wrong.

“I just don’t really buy into the whole soulmate thing,” she shrugs, crossing her arms and looking down, “I mean, what if your soulmate sucks?” she looks at him, “Not that you suck.” He gives a small smile to encourage her to continue.

“It’s just like-- there are abusive people in this world, right?” she continues, and he nods, “So what if your soulmate is abusive? You’re just supposed to stay with them cause they’re your soulmate?” He’d never really thought of that, actually.

“Or what if you fall in love with someone and they aren’t your soulmate?” she unfolds her arms to gesticulate, “Are you just supposed to give up on that love because some magical force out there says it’s not right?” She’s actually making… a lot of sense. Race can track the shift in his worldview as it happens. Maybe soulmates aren’t everything? Maybe it should really be about who you love, colors be damned?

“Anyway I just,” she huffs and gives a wry smile, “I don’t kiss on the first date cause if I’m gonna love someone, I’m gonna love them colors or not.” Race must be looking at her funny cause she laughs, then reaches out to shut his gaping mouth.

“I never thought of it that way,” he says after a moment, thinking of all the good, even great, relationships he could’ve had if he hadn’t been so obsessed with colors. He thinks of Spot and the way the other man makes his heart race, makes him blush and want to kiss him, even though he knows there’s no colors.

They say their goodbyes and Toni gets into her car as Race heads for the bus stop. He has more than enough time to think while waiting for the bus and on the ride home, and he feels a decision brewing. When he gets home, Spot is up, making himself breakfast. Upon questioning, Race tells him how the date went, before trying to finish grading his papers. But he can’t stop thinking about what Toni said, finally giving up on his work to rant at Spot. Spot just sits on the kitchen counter and listens, slowly eating his omelette and bacon as Race paces around the room, questioning his entire reality.

“If you love someone, you should just be with them,” he says, stilling and turning to Spot, “Why give up happiness waiting for a soulmate that may never come?” Spot responds with something probably wise, mouth full of food for half the revelation, but Race is so trapped in his own mind he can’t really process what’s being said. The decision that was brewing before is coming to fruition now, and Race realizes he’s really going to do it. He  _ needs _ to do it. He’s spent all this time denying himself the one thing he really wants, because he was so stuck on some hypothetical soulmate. He’s been so goddamn in love with Spot for as long as he cares to remember and he’s finally going to do something about it. And he feels… safe doing something about it, because no matter what, Spot is always there. Whenever Race needs him, he’s there to hold him or wipe his tears or take him drinking. He’s been there for years and Race has loved him for it and for so much more than it and he’s gonna do something about it, because he knows that even if Spot doesn’t feel the same way, he’ll still be there. Spot is his soulmate in a way that people with colors dream about.

“Hey Spot,” he says as the man puts his plate on the counter, “You wanna go to dinner some time?” His heart is pounding in his chest and he might pass out, the culmination of over a decade weighing heavy on him.

“Sure,” Spot agrees, and Race feels light and effervescent and all those bubbly words people use when they’re in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, unedited. Next chapter will be the last!


	12. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot brings Race lunch. Things do not go as expected.

As is pretty standard for his life, Spot is wondering what the hell is going on. He and Race have been hanging out more often, going to dinner and catching movies and taking walks in the park after sundown. That’s not the weird part, though. The weird part is that Race has been using his limited budget to do things like buy Spot flowers and gifts. The weird thing is that Race is acting like he’s courting Spot, holding doors for him and laughing too loud at his bad jokes. The weird thing is that Race ends up in Spot’s bed more often than not, curled up right beside him every weekend when Spot can actually sleep at night. The weird thing is Race has this huge shirt in life perspective and the breakdown that comes with it, and after Spot helped him come to terms with it, he started acting like they’re dating.

Are they dating?

No, of course not. Race would have told him if they were dating. And Race definitely would have kissed him by now if they were dating. Even with his new no-kissing lifestyle, there’s no way he’d go almost three months without kissing someone he was dating.

So they’re not dating. Except Race keeps acting like they are, and it’s giving Spot all the warm-and-fuzzy feelings that he wants nothing to do with. He spends entirely too much time imagining that Race is his boyfriend, thinking of being together and how soft Race’s lips probably are and having a family and— oh god, he’s in too deep. If only Race would just go back to normal and date that other teacher so Spot could move on with his life. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure he could handle losing Race’s new affection. And if he’s being really, super-duper honest with himself, in his heart of hearts, he’s not sure he’ll ever get over Race.

He wishes he could drive, because bus rides give him way too much time to think. If he drove, he could focus on the road and not the thoughts flying around his mind, mostly centered around his roommate-slash-best-friend. Luckily it doesn’t take long to get to his stop, so he tries to focus on the passing care insurance rad or how cute Race looked in his shirt sleeve button down today for the twenty minute ride. Okay, maybe twenty minutes wasn’t short to a normal person, but he takes public transit out of the city for work five days a week, so it doesn’t seem so bad for him. Besides, half the twenty minutes is just because of traffic anyway. Once he’s off the bus, it’s only another ten minute walk until he reaches Race’s school. He’s a bit early for Race’s lunch period, so he waits by the front desk after he checks in and gets his visitor sticker. The secretary behind the desk makes sure he lute converse ion while he waits, and it makes the time go faster. Soon enough, the bell rings and students rush the halls. The sheer mass and density of the horde makes him decide to stay put until they clear out before going to Race’s room. The sound of hundreds, if not over a thousand, students is so overwhelming and cacophonous that trying to talk to the secretary again is useless. So he just stands there for four minutes, food bag in hand, waiting for the tide of students to recede.

Finally, the bell rings and the rest of the students filter into their classrooms. Spot bids the secretary adieu and starts off in the direction of Race’s classroom. The silence of the halls is almost deafening after the caucus deluge of students. He finds himself humming a little tune just to fill the absence, some old Cuban lullaby his mother used to sing to him as a child. It’s one Race likes, which means he’s thinking of Race again, which means he’s feeling like a pathetic little boy with a crush on the most popular boy in school, which he used to be when he was the new punk from Brooklyn and Race was his new school’s favorite class-clown-slash-sports-Star. Then Race befriended him despite Spot’s best efforts, and with Race came the rest of the crew, and suddenly he was popular for the first time. Plus he became star of the ice hockey team, which brought its own friends and notoriety. After so many years with only his gang behind him, and most of them only deferring out of fear, it had taken him a while to get used to having real friends who genuinely enjoyed his company. But he did and now they’re all certified Big Kids and still just as close. He had Race and his tenacity to thank for the fact that he wasn’t locked up or dead. To thank for the fact that he could call himself an honest man. He’s getting off track. The point of the matter is that Spot is still in love with Race and Race has done everything to deserve it.

He’s been to the school enough times that he only gets a little bit lost on his way to the classroom. He must pass the classroom twice before he finally realizes where it is, and he shakes his head at his own obliviousness. The eight of students still in the room stops him in his tracks in the doorway. It’s just three young boys, no more than 17, gathered on the near side of Race’s desk in the back of the room. They’re all fidgeting like they can’t bear to sit still, bumping shoulders and punching arms like they’re close friends. He can’t really see Race past the wall of teenager, and so assumes Race can’t see him either. It would be rude to interrupt, so Spot stands in the doorway and totally doesn’t eavesdrop.

“So you don’t have your colors yet?” The not furthest to Spot’s right asks. The middle boy shoves him, hissing “you can’t just ask people that!” The first boy shoves him back, defending himself.

“He doesn’t mind, right, Mr. Higgins?” He turns his head back toward Race for support. Race just laughs, a laugh Spot would know in death.

“I don’t mind,” he assures them, his voice gaining a warning tone as he adds, “Just don’t make a habit of asking people that. It’s a sensitive subject for some people.” The boys nod and give various affirmative responses.

“So you don’t have your colors yet?” The boy on the left reaffirms softly. Race must shake his head because the kid continues, “But don’t you have a boyfriend?” Spot can see the other two perk up at that.

“Yeah!” One says, “That guy who always brings you lunch!” The other two nod.

“You always look at him like you’re in lo-ove,” one teases. Race laughs again and Spot’s heart skips a beat. Of course Race is laughing, because the idea of them dating is laughable. He’s the only one who brings Race lunch, so they have to be talking about him. It hurts, to know that Race thinks the idea of them together is so ridiculous, but at least he knows the answer to “are they dating”. Except maybe he doesn’t, because Race responds:

“Yeah, I guess you could say he’s my boyfriend,” and Spot’s mind is reeling as Race says, “We’ve been dating for a few months.” Spot wracks his brain for anyone else that they could be talking about, literally  _ anyone _ , and comes up empty. Race said they’re dating. All these dinners and gifts and quality time has been Race wooing him, and it worked, and Spot didn’t even know it. They’re dating, which means Race likes him, like, like-likes him; and Spot has been agonizing for weeks over nothing.

“Have you kissed him yet?” One student asks, and Spot is too off his rhythm to figure out which one is talking. He’s thinking of flowers and hand holding and how he’s an idiot for not realizing sooner.

“Yeah,” Race responds, melancholy nipping at his tone. And the students are asking a question and Race is explaining that soulmates aren’t everything and Race is an idiot too, because they’ve never kissed and god, they’re just perfect for each other aren’t they? Two absolute idiots dancing around each other for years, a tango of unnecessarily ridiculous proportions, all because Race likes to get drunk and kiss everyone but him.

“Race, you are so fucking dumb,” he blurts out, feet carrying him across the room, hands dropping bags of food on desks, “ _ We _ are so fucking dumb.” He gives a laugh, maybe a little hysterical, and the students part like a tiny Red Sea to let Spot approach the desk. He’s so preoccupied with Race that he doesn’t realize all their faces silently scream “holy shit”.

“We’ve never kissed,” Spot says, coming to a stop right in front of the desk. Race sits up, brow furrowing.

“We must have kissed,” Race insists, “I’ve kissed all my friends.” Spot shakes his head, smile spreading across his face.

“Except me,” Spot replies, excitement bubbling up in his stomach like butterflies, like bird wings, like years of longing bursting out at once.

“Spot,” Race says his name like a prayer, standing from his chair. Spot grabs him by his stupid short sleeved button-up in goddamn winter and Race’s hands tangle in Spot’s not-much-more-sensible leather jacket. They stare each other down, breathing growing more ragged by the second. Finally, finally, fifteen years finally, they lean in.

When they part, Spot hears cheering alongside the roaring in his ears.

Race’s eyes are blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it folks!! This story is taken almost a year to write and I’m glad so many people seem to have enjoyed it! It’s not really something I’m proud of, but I’ve met some great fic writers from it and for that I am glad. I’m considering rewriting it in the future, so maybe one day it will be better (and actually edited). I am so grateful to everyone who kudos’d and commented, especially those who took the time to comment more than once. You are such a lovely fandom!! Thank you for everything!!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, all criticism, critiques, and corrections welcome! Hope you enjoyed!


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